


Untitled Imported Work

by pearbean



Category: Cadfael Chronicles - Ellis Peters
Genre: Gen, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-10
Updated: 2007-03-10
Packaged: 2020-10-29 22:40:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20804144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearbean/pseuds/pearbean
Summary: Hugh has a really really shitty day.





	Untitled Imported Work

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless hurt/comfort. Absolutely shameless. No excuse for it at all. But at least it's mostly finished.
> 
> NB: It's been pointed out to me by a helpful soul that (of course!) clock towers were not about circa 1140. Further speedy wikipedia research has informed me that [the first striking clock tower was invented in 1156 in Damascus](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clock_tower)\- there must be an Olivier plot bunny there for someone :)
> 
> Anyway, since the chimes are at this point fairly integral to the happy piece of fluff that is this fic, I'm leaving them in. I hope you enjoy it despite its historical innaccuracies.

Snow, Hugh Beringar decided, was a variety of weather he could happily do without.

He could very much do without it now, when it was his turn to be Officer in Charge of the Watch because it had been someone’s (read: Hugh’s) bright idea that having an officer on duty with the men boosted morale.

His feet were cold, his cloak was too short and let a draft in about his knees, he was nursing a hoarse cough which showed promise, and his head had an alarming tendency to swim. He still had two hours of the watch to go.

The snow was coming down in damp, pathetic flakes. It was settling half-heartedly on the stone walls of Shrewsbury Castle, made bone-achingly cold by the chill in the air. Hugh could feel his cloak getting heavier as the snow settled on his shoulders and melted into the wool. He wondered what it would do to the men’s morale if the officer in charge of the watch (and boosting morale) passed out while on said watch.

The clock tower struck the quarter-hour, and Hugh blinked back the light-headedness and stamped his feet, preparing for his turn of the patrol of the north wall. At least marching up and down the length of the garrison for the next fifteen minutes might warm him slightly, better than standing sentry duty.

* * *

When the clock finally struck midday, signalling the end of his watch, Hugh was soaked through. The snow showed no signs of stopping, quite the opposite in fact. The flakes now seemed larger and were settling on all available surfaces, covering everything in a deceptive blanket.

Hugh made his way down from the castle wall, looking forwards to a well-deserved half hour in front of the fire in the guardroom with his fellow watchmen. Long enough, at least, to ensure that his boots dried out enough to service him through the rest of his afternoon’s duty. Perhaps also, and it was a vain hope, half an hour in front of the fire would drive some of the ache from his head, and bring back at least a glimmer of the sharp thought that was his usual trademark.

In his daze, he walked into Will Warden’s broad chest as he turned into the guardroom.

“Ah, my Lord Beringar, I had hoped to find you here. There has been some trouble with the potters and Master Bonham again. He begged that you come to mediate as soon as you were able, since the situation in his view has become unbearable.”

Hugh managed to hide his dismay rather well. The potters’ dispute with Master Bonham was likely to take up most of the afternoon, so he reluctantly abandoned his dreams of warm boots and a windproof cloak, and began to head towards the stables, Will Warden trailing in his less than steady wake.

“Master Bonham claims that the fumes from the kilns are making his household ill. I have not heard the potters’ side, though they were unhelpful when last Master Bonham brought his complaint to us.”

Hugh sighed. “And last time the potters agreed that they would fire the kilns only at night when the horses were stabled and Master Bonham’s windows were shuttered. Why must we intervene here again?”

When Will Warden looked as though he might answer, Hugh waved an impatient hand. “No matter. I shall go and see what can be done. Though how simple woodsmoke can make a man ill is beyond my reasoning.”

* * *

It was an even more bedraggled Hugh who finally dragged himself into the forecourt of the castle and abandoned his horse to the care of the groom. He was liberally coated with ash from a handful of kiln-burnings that had been aimed at Master Bonham and had instead struck him squarely, sticking to his still-wet cloak. He also bore a tender bruise across one cheekbone where Master Bonham’s retaliatory fist had missed the potter, and hit instead the smaller mediator, who had lacked his usual quick reflexes and so had neglected to duck.

At least, Hugh mused ruefully, their respective remorse had solved the problem faster than any mediation he could have performed for the battling parties.

* * *  
His vision blurred with every step and he alternated wildly between body-wracking shivers and burning heat which made him want to wrench off his cloak and roll in the snow.

He made his way southwards from the castle, heading towards home and bed, and a set of dry clothes. Aline and her cold, dainty hands would try to tend him, but she would probably worry too much and send for Cadfael. She and Constance would huddle fearfully in the doorway, talking in whispers as if it were a death-watch. Oh, how he loathed being ill!  
  
A sudden longing crept up in him then, for a blazing fire, sweet wine, the scent of dried herbs and the familiar, comforting presence of his friend. He muttered to himself and turned his back to home, heading out of the city’s wicket gate and crossing the bridge which led to the abbey.

The abbey porter, snug in his lodge, started upright at the knock on the gate. It was faint, so much so that he almost doubted he’d heard it. He drew back the latch and opened the spy-hole.  
He was startled to see the sheriff of the county on the other side of his gate, but assuming it was official business that brought him, the porter made all haste to let Hugh Beringar in.

Hugh gazed at the man, managed a cursory thanks, and then began to weave his way across the abbey courtyard, heading for the gardens and Cadfael’s snug workshop.

He was intercepted by a novice, still untonsured, who came running out of a side door as he passed.

“Lord Beringar! Father Abbot asks that you grant him a brief audience if your errand here is not urgent.”

Hugh Beringar was not so foolish a man that he would keep the Abbot of Shrewsbury Abbey waiting on an audience. He turned to follow the lad, hoping that the audience would indeed be brief.

“I came only to see Brother Cadfael. My errand can wait.”

* * *

He paused for a moment on the staircase leading to Abbot Radulfus’ chambers in order to let his head clear, and to rid himself of a coughing fit which had been threatening for some time. Then he straightened himself and his ash-covered cloak as best he could, and entered the presence of the Abbot.

Well aware of the sight he made, Hugh steadfastly ignored any strange looks he knew he must be getting from Prior Robert and his right hand man, Brother Jerome, and instead made his dutiful obeisance before the Abbot, who regarded the sheriff with his hawk-like gaze.

“You seem to be a little worse for wear today, Lord Beringar.” The Abbot hid his amusement well, though a little humour and fellow-feeling leaked into his warm tones.

Hugh and Abbot Radulfus shared a mutual regard which extended chiefly from their common liking of Brother Cadfael. The sheriff was therefore able to allow a little of his bad humour to dissolve in the face of this sympathy from a known ally. Perhaps this meeting would not be so interminable after all, despite the pounding of his head and the ominous ache that stretched across his chest and shoulders.

* * *

Hugh finally emerged from the abbot’s chambers about two hours later. Dusk was falling, and he peered briefly out of the window of the reception room to note that the snow had finally stopped.

He felt strangely disconnected, and the symptoms of whatever ailed him had returned with a vengeance. As he turned to bid farewell to the Abbot, the dancing black spots appeared again before his sight.

He barely heard the Brother Jerome’s cry of alarm as he passed out.

* * *

When he came to, Hugh was propped up against someone’s shoulder. It was a minute or two before Hugh identified the shoulder as one belonging to Cadfael, but this revelation was no less welcome than it would have been if it had been made sooner. He was still on the floor of the Abbot’s reception room, but no one else was present, presumably having been banished by his friend.

An arm supported him, while his head rested comfortably on the monk’s collarbone. He considered that perhaps he should not feel quite as comfortable in that position as he did, but he did not trouble himself with this unduly since quite a large portion of his cognitive processes were engaged upon attempting to stay conscious now that this state had been regained.

Cadfael was peering into his face anxiously. It was not the first time Hugh had appeared at the Abbey in need of aid, but there was no telling what had brought him to this state on this occasion. With his arm about his patient’s shoulders, the herbalist could feel the damp of Hugh’s clothes, but that was a natural result from the snow. He feared some hidden knife wound, or other injury, this given credence by the bruise blooming on his friend’s cheek.

“Are you hurt, Hugh?”

Hugh managed a negative shake of his head with no worse effect than a wave of nausea. “Nothing but a cold.”

“I should like to see the common cold which makes a man look as ill as you do.”

Cadfael pressed the back of his hand gently to Hugh’s burning cheek, then swept up under the shock of dark hair to check his forehead.

He tutted gently. “Fever, Hugh. Don’t try to tell me still that a cold is all that ails you.”

He paused, frowning critically as Hugh succumbed to a fit of coughing.

“How long were you out in this inclement weather? On watch again, were you? And I don’t doubt you were ill before you ever set foot on the city wall. I have warned you before about forfeiting your health for your duty-”

“Cadfael,” Hugh interrupted, “If it had not snowed, there would have been no harm.” Hugh’s voice was hoarse, and despite himself he was smiling thinly at Cadfael’s mothering.

“Well, harm there has been, my friend. Here, can you stand? We’ll get you to my workshop where I can better tend you.”

Cadfael closed the door firmly, and placed his lantern on the workbench. He set about lighting a fire, which soon began warming the little space, and cast a glow about the place which increased the cosy atmosphere. His worry showed in the set of his shoulders, and in his knit brows as he turned back to face his hapless friend. He hung Hugh’s cloak up to dry, and placed his boots by the fire to do the same. The herbalist then turned his attention to the patient.

They wrestled off Hugh’s sodden wardrobe, and Cadfael replaced it with a dry habit kept in the workshop for just such emergencies. Hugh was then bustled into the corner of the little shed, and bundled beneath piles of blankets on the pallet which Cadfael used if a delicate potion required tending overnight.

Cadfael returned to his cauldron and began to occupy himself with a ladle and a small bowl full of unidentifiable herbs.

Hugh allowed his eyes to drift shut, soothing the pounding of his head and allowing him to concentrate on the little sounds Cadfael made as he drifted about his familiar workshop performing familiar tasks. The sounds of concerted activity were balm to him when he had come to dread the silence of the sickbed he endured at home.

He lay inert while Cadfael once again tested his temperature with the back of his hand, and then his pulse at his wrist with a practised gesture. Finally a steaming mug of something with the heady smell of spice and cloves was put gently into his hands.

“Here, now. This will warm you and should ease that cough of yours.”

He opened his eyes to meet Cadfael’s, as the monk stood over him. Affection now, rather than worry, twinkled in their depths. Apparently it had been decided that he would live.

“It will make you sleep, as well. Don’t fight it, you need your rest.”

* * *

When Brother Oswin appeared a little later as appointed to help Cadfael with the preparation of an ointment for a patient at St. Giles, he found Hugh Beringar soundly asleep. Cadfael sat beside him, seeing to the application of a cold compress to Hugh’s fevered forehead.

“Oswin,” said Cadfael, in a lowered voice so as not to disturb his patient, “we shall not be preparing that ointment this evening. If the snow has stopped- and only if it has, mind- I should like to dispatch you to Aline Beringar to tell her that I have her husband safe, and to collect a fresh dry set of clothes for when he is fit to leave his bed. She will no doubt be wondering what could have become of him.”

Oswin nodded happily, most content when he could be useful without causing mortifying chaos from the order of Brother Cadfael’s workshop.

“The snow has stopped already, Brother Cadfael. I will go at once so she does not worry for him longer than she need.”

The tall, lanky form of his assistant disappeared through the door, leaving him alone with his friend. Cadfael studied Hugh’s sleeping face, too pale now for the dark brows and looking strangely incomplete without the sardonic twist of the mouth that usually graced it.

It was so unlike Hugh, usually dutiful, to forsake hearth and home without a word to his wife. But it was Cadfael he had come to…

With a sudden smile brightening his face, Cadfael got to his feet and returned to his potions.


End file.
